


lived in shade

by finkpishnets



Category: The OA (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 02, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29879931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finkpishnets/pseuds/finkpishnets
Summary: “It worked,” BBA says, and French clings to it, lets it sinks into his bones and makes the decision then and there to be all in.Hebelieves.The alternative’s no longer an option.
Relationships: Alfonso "French" Sosa & Buck Vu
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	lived in shade

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-season 2 because I needed _something_. This has been sat in my WIPs for so long I completely forgot about it, and also because I'm still mad Netflix cancelled it _again_.

**~**

Steve’s gone.

Or—

French prays he’s gone, prays it’s all real — please, _God_ , let it be real — because the sight of his body slumped on the ground outside a run-down mental institution thousands of miles from home is too many steps too far, enough to be crippling if it’s not…If there’s a chance…

“It worked,” BBA says, and French clings to it, lets it sinks into his bones and makes the decision then and there to be all in.

He _believes_.

The alternative’s no longer an option.

“ _Steve_ ,” Angie says, choking on a sob as she reaches out, and French blinks, tries to find the energy to move, but his legs feel too heavy until Angie says, “He has a pulse!” and then they’re all rushing forward as one.

“Give him some air,” BBA says, her voice firmer now than French ever remembers hearing it. He takes a step back and then another, unsteady, before a hand wraps around his wrist, keeping him upright.

Buck.

“We did it,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “We did it, right?”

“Yeah,” French says firmly. “We did it.”

“He’s not waking up,” Angie says, Steve’s head cradled on her lap. His new, shorn hair makes him look older, more intentional, and French imagines that was the point, if Steve had one at all outside of grief and impulse. 

“He’s with OA,” Buck says, eyes darting to French for assurance. French thinks his smile comes out more like a grimace, but Buck looks steadier so that’s something.

“But he’s not…He’s not…” Angie can’t say it. French gets that.

“We should call Agent Rahim,” he says, digging the burner phone Elias had left him with from his pocket even as the others frown. “We need to store Steve’s body somewhere safe in case he wakes up, and if you guys forgot, we’re still fugitives.”

“He’s right,” BBA says, and, well. That’s that.

French makes the call.

**~**

Everything starts moving too quickly.

Elias shows up with a small team who move smoothly and efficiently, carefully lifting Steve’s body onto a stretcher and hooking him up to a string of machines as BBA stands guard.

It’s chaos and then it’s just them, dawn on the horizon and the anticlimax stretching across their shoulders, the echo of Elias’ hand on his back as he told him he’d done the right thing.

Nothing feels right, but at least it’s _something_.

BBA shepherds them all to a new motel, a cheap place where the doors don’t face the road and the desk clerk barely looks up when French pays for the rooms. For all Elias has promised to help, BBA’s face is still splashed across the news and he doesn’t know how they’re going to stop it, how they can make people forget.

“Here,” he says, passing BBA a key. Buck’s face is still buried in her shoulder, cheeks stained from the tears that have finally stopped, and BBA awkwardly trades the key for Buck who tries to straighten up, wiping furiously at his cheeks as Angie follows BBA into the room, silent and emotionless.

The room’s aren’t connected; French hadn’t wanted to make a fuss, to draw unnecessary attention, so he and Buck trek up another flight of stairs and all the way to the end of the row. The door needs some WD-40 and inside it smells a little like damp and cheap room spray. 

“I’m gonna…” Buck says, waving a hand in the direction of the bathroom. He takes his backpack with him, sleeves tugged down over his hands, and French nods and throws his own stuff on the desk chair.

The bed’s a queen, the comforter some vague shade of brown, and he strips it off, flinging in in the corner where he doesn’t have to think about how many other people have touched it. The sheets underneath are crisp white, stiff with cheap detergent but _clean_ , and French spreads out, his cheek sinking into the too-soft pillows. 

He must doze off because Buck’s back, hair smelling of off-brand shampoo and wearing a new black t-shirt that’s too big for him.

“I got snacks,” Buck says a little awkwardly, and French sits up, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“Thanks.”

They sit cross-legged on the bed and eat too many bags of chips, splitting chocolate bars and trying not to spill soda that fizzes when opened. It feels like a million years since French ate anything with nutritious substance. Buck’s collarbones are standing out too sharply, his cheekbones starting to look a little sunken, and French knows they can’t keep doing this.

He doesn’t think any of them ever thought they’d have to.

There’s still the faint traces of red around Buck’s eyes from where he’d cried again in the shower, and French doesn’t mention it, knows that he’ll break down spectacularly before long and doesn’t resent the others for being able to do it earlier, to face their new reality head on.

“What do we do now?” Buck says, and French blinks at the break in silence.

“Sleep, I guess,” and knows it’s not what Buck means.

**~**

The thin curtains barely block out the parking lot strip lights, and French kicks at the sheets, trying to get comfortable. Buck’s curled up into a ball, as close to the other side of the bed as possible, and French would be offended if he didn’t understand the layers involved.

(Layer one: their world has just fallen apart _again_ and it feels like one more thing will be enough to smash what remains of them into jagged shards.

Layer two: OA is gone. Steve is gone. Jesse is _gone_.

Layer three: the years Buck’s eyes have spent sliding over French when he doesn’t think he’s watching. The soft smiles tilted up at him from onstage or the other side of the lunch room. Careful and innocent and discreet and so soft French always has to look away.)

The soft hic of a muffled sob echoes against the walls and French turns on his side.

“Buck…” he says, and Buck takes a breath and holds it, like he’s trying to take everything and bottle it up inside his lungs. “Buck.”

“Sorry,” Buck says, and carefully turns until they’re facing each other.

French waits.

“This feels like the end,” Buck says eventually, “but it shouldn’t.”

French gets it. _God_ , he gets it. It feels like they’ve been left behind for the last time, left to pick up their painfully boring lives from _before_ and not get to see this out to the end. Wherever OA and Steve are, French thinks they should be there. Thought they would be. Didn’t expect to be stuck holding the wreckage. 

“Maybe,” French says, and isn’t sure if it’s for Buck or for _him_ , “maybe it’s enough that we know. I mean. It’s all real. It’s _out there_. It’s not like that’s stopped being true because OA’s not here to guide us.”

“I know,” Buck says, and French hears _‘I’m asking you to believe in me’_. Knows that Buck’s trusted blindly for harder and longer than he has. “I just— I can’t go back to a world without magic.”

_Magic._

It’s not. French knows it not. It’s something far harsher and far less controllable. It’s life and death, a kaleidoscope of butterflies twisting the universe with every beat of their wings.

It’s not magic, but he guesses it’s as good a word as any.

Besides, maybe Buck doesn’t mean all that.

“We won’t,” he says, and hopes Buck hears what he’s saying. That they won’t forget; that they’ll always follow the threads; that they’re still family, forged in pain and trauma and something better, something inevitable and bittersweet. “Come here,” French says when Buck’s eyes fill with tears, stretching out an arm and waiting for Buck’s hesitation, surprised when it doesn’t come. Buck rests his head on French’s chest, curling his fingers into his t-shirt, holding on tight. 

French wraps his arm around Buck’s shoulders, presses his cheek against Buck’s clean hair, and wonders how long he can keep the future a distant thing.

Tries not to think about tomorrow.

When he finally sleeps, he dreams of magic.

It’s cold and cruel and unbearably familiar, and he grips it with both hands and refuses to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://madroxed.tumblr.com/)


End file.
